


Mormor Advent Challenge 2020 Day 7: Deck

by RueRambunctious



Series: Mormor Advent Challenge 2020 [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blasphemy, Boss/Employee Relationship, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28559481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RueRambunctious/pseuds/RueRambunctious
Summary: [Yes, I am really behind on these, but who is truly surprised?]Jim lets himself into Sebastian's home. For many reasons, none of which truly appears to be a business-minded motivation to be keeping an eye on his investment.
Relationships: Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty
Series: Mormor Advent Challenge 2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2044660
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	Mormor Advent Challenge 2020 Day 7: Deck

Jim smiles at the expected flutter of paper as he pushes open Sebastian Moran’s front door. There are a few dangerous little booby-traps to outsmart before Jim can pick up the item, but Sebby’s only Oxbridge clever and institutionally predictable in these things.

To Jim anyway.

The consulting criminal scrawls a cheeky smile on the tiny scrap of paper and nestles it within his pocket square for the time being. He’ll have to remember to put it back exactly where he found it, for the game to be its most amusing.

Jim wanders around the empty flat relatively unhindered. Sebby’s a suspicious and sadistic brute, but Jim doesn’t mind that. Far from it actually, it’s rather endearing.

Jim whistles thoughtfully and shoves his hands in his pockets as he strolls around the space. It’s not the first time Jim has seen the place; far from it, as Jim installed its spy camera network himself and peruses the feed multiple times daily.

Sebastian seems to have gotten used to Jim breaking into his home, or at least has accepted that it happens. He’s taken to leaving out conspicuous and expensive singular bottles of red wine for these ‘visits’ – always a brand and vintage Jim likes well enough, and occasionally even with a little note when Seb is in fine humour. The notes are usually impertinent, and Jim would punish the man sorely if he wasn’t so amused about it.

Sebastian Moran’s taste in living quarters is another questionable joke. Seb is old money, from a long line of landowning lords, and he cannot stand traditional anything. In his determination to avoid anything that smacks too much of his upbringing, Sebby’s décor is a migraine-inducing mishmash of new money uninhabitable glass and metal spaces, cringingly cheap, modern monstrosities, and a fully functioning kitchen that wouldn’t look out of place somewhere intended to house far more people than one man and his (admittedly enormous) appetite.

Jim hates the aesthetic of nearly everything in the place. He fully intends to either burn the eyesore down or blow it to kingdom come.

Jim opens the bottle of wine Seb has placed out on the enormous, oak kitchen table. It could seat an entire staff or one heck of a dinner party, but Jim has never known Sebastian to socialise here much. The blond used to take one or two people home to ‘entertain’ but Jim soon saw to it that Seb hastily killed that habit. Even if Sebby’s little habit of killing off some of his little playdates was borderline amusing to spy on.

Jim has expected Seb to fight the ‘no philandering’ order more than the man had. Sebastian Moran had a reputation as not merely a rake, but a bona fide sex addict. It is unquieting how peculiarly obedient Sebastian has been about the whole thing, but so far no misbehaviour in that respect has been exhibited under the very close eye kept on him.

Peculiar, most peculiar. The exasperating blond usually struggles with taking orders about things he doesn’t even care about, never mind about how he spends his free time. If ‘free’ is really a descriptor one can really use upon a man tied to Jim Moriarty for the rest of his likely shortened life.

Jim lifts down a glass and leaves the red wine out to breathe.

He haunts the rooms wondering what items Seb would wish to save if he knew the building was doomed. Sebastian seems on the whole unsentimental and ready to pick up and leave within a moment’s notice, but even ex special forces thugs like Sebby tend to have some favourite toys.

Sebastian’s fond of his weapon collection, but there’s nothing within it that’s utterly irreplaceable. He tends to prefer function over form anyway, so the few antiques in aforementioned collection are negligible.

Seb has a stubborn fondness for dressing in a scuffed leather jacket and battered boots when not officially on the clock, but he’ll wear whatever he’s told to. Likewise he has a few noteworthy lighters littering the pockets of his clothing and various household surfaces, but Jim has also known the man to lose enough of those on past nights of drunken misadventures before entering Jim’s employ proper that whatever places or people the trinkets are a reminder of, they are not true treasures.

Seb’s medals are at the bottom of the Thames. He wears his dog tags still, which ought annoy Jim since it would make Sebastian’s body easily enough identifiable if one was in a hurry, but they seem so much a part of the man as to be kin with Sebby’s skin.

Sebastian has a peculiar relationship with the forces. The British Army had been his life for most of his life, even having been a successful cadet before university, and being dishonourably discharged (as a colonel no less!) had cut him in ways no torturer in any sandy place had managed.

That spectre haunts Seb still, but is largely ignored by Sebastian as best as the man can. He doesn’t get much time for self-pity either, not when at the constant beck and call of Jim Moriarty.

Sebby doesn’t seem to mind that. Funny how a man who baulks so much at following orders needs such a structure to his life.

Then again, he’s not allowed to sleep around or get rip-roaring drunk, so all he really has is doing as he’s told.

There’s a deck of cards laid out in an abandoned game of solitaire one one of the ugly glass tables that Sebastian had wasted far too much of his wages on for no other discernable reason other than that anyone with good taste must hate it not only upon sight but on principle. The cards themselves were issued before a middle eastern tour years ago, with the suit’s faces replaced by wanted men who are all long dead.

Jim has been replacing the cards on and off with amusing replicas for some time. Sebastian Moran is a notorious card cheat and Jim has surprised himself with how much fun he finds in replicating every naughty tell (a slight bend, a misprinted back…) with an equally functional one of his own design.

For all of Sebastian supposed keen mental discernment, he hasn’t said anything about the game yet. But then, perhaps that is the real proof of his sagaciousness – that he hasn’t raised it with Jim.

The Irishman bites his lip thoughtfully and makes tonight’s switch. Not many originals left. When there’s all gone, this apartment will go too. _Tick tock_. 

Jim has plans for Sebastian Moran.

Casting a final glance at the deck of cards, Jim draws himself to his feet and returns to the uncorked wine. He is about to pour himself a glassful when he hears a very deliberate clearing of a throat.

Jim freezes, and cannot help but smile that he had not heard his man’s approach. Moran really is the best.

“Two glasses then?” Jim asks, unfazed.

Sebastian closes the front door with a firm _click_ \- what a waste of the smile in Jim’s pocket… oh well… another time – and cooly states, “You’re lucky I’m not always a ‘shoot first, question never’ sort of bloke.”

Jim chortles. “That insubordinate tongue of yours has asked plenty of questions it oughtn’t.”

“For a genius you’re terribly blasé about breaking into your pet assassin’s kitchen, aren’t you?” Sebastian retorts.

“Oh you’re my _pet_ are you?” Jim asked with a wicked smile. “I must not have broken you in fully, if you think it’s your place to question my behaviour.”

Seb’s expression twitches wonderfully, and Jim is glad of the footage he is going to watch over and over of that fact. Sebastian sighs, runs a large hand through his short hair, and mutters, “Whatever you say, boss. That spare glass still going?”

Jim considers toying further, but chooses to be magnanimous instead. “If you fetch it; this wine won’t pour itself.”

Sebastian gives him a disquietingly searching look for a brief moment. It makes something catch in Jim’s chest. Before the Irishman can identify the stirred feeling, Sebby has turned his broad back and is shedding his overcoat. Most men wouldn’t dare give Jim an open target like that, but there’s enough shiny surfaces in this ugly, futuristic hellhole that Seb can see Jim reflected in a multitude of places.

Jim neglects the wine and saunters over to the couch. He sprawls out on the impractically shaped beast as though quite at home.

Sebastian doesn’t kick his own shoes off; he can tell when a situation is still teetering closely to sleeping with one’s boots on necessity. Instead, he fetches the wine and two glasses, which he carries towards the couch and deposits on another hideous glass table. Jim reaches out and accepts a glass when Seb pours.

“Is there a reason that you keep doing this?” Sebastian asks.

Jim takes in the wine’s bouquet thoughtfully. “Is it not obvious that I’m keeping a responsible eye on my investment?”

Sebby chuckles openly, and Jim is uncertain how to feel about that. “If you ever give me fair advanced warning, I could give the place a decent dusting before you come over.”

Jim curls his lip. “All this glass is a magnet for it.”

“So I’ve learned,” Sebastian says with oddly charming ruefulness. He pours a glass of wine for himself and perches with poised attentiveness at one end of the couch. His limbs look enormous, and the stem of the wine glass seems perilously fragile in his meaty fist.

“You should have hired a decent interior decorator,” Jim says.

Sebby’s eyes crinkle at the edges. “Well now, if you ever want to redecorate when you’re letting yourself in you’ve got my blessing, boss.”

Jim feels discomfited. Sebastian has a peculiar way of joking around as though everything he knows about Jim isn’t sufficient to prevent such odd behaviour. “You couldn’t pay me enough to take on this vile place,” Jim grumbles into his glass.

“The walls are sturdy, the load-bearing pillars give good coverage, there’s few places for intruders to hide, and everything breakable makes a me a viable weapon in a pinch,” Seb says calmly.

Jim cannot stop himself looking up at the other man with an openly approving smile.

“What?” Seb grins back. “Not just a pretty face, you know.”

“That must have been the last of the self-preservation between your ears if you’re so comfortable in my company,” Jim says with feigned disgust.

“I suppose with you always dropping by unannounced it’s almost like you live here too,” Sebastian says a little too pointedly.

“If you wish to continue living at all I suggest you watch your tone,” Jim warns, but not as sharply as he means to.

“Sorry, boss,” says Sebastian, but he doesn’t sound nearly as much as he ought to.

Jim frowns and knocks back most of his glass, simmering and pondering furiously as he does so.

“How do you feel about Christmas lights?” Sebastian asks out of the blue.

Jim looks at him sharply.

Seb grins into his wine and takes a sip before having the good grace to explain himself. “Well, _I_ don’t normally bother, but if you like a bit of fuss I suppose I could deck the halls.”

Jim momentarily pictures this horrible, shiny space flashing glaringly with vile ropes of festive lights. “By Christ, Sebby, I’d deck _you_ if you tried.”

“Well now, to be fair there, boss, many’ve found you trying,” Sebastian says. His voice is inexplicably warm and shaking with poorly contained mirth instead of fear.

Jim cannot comprehend it. “Sebastian Moran, are you drunk?”

Seb raises a brow and then his mostly full glass. “Near sober as a judge. Why, want to check?”

Jim finds himself staring at Sebastian’s full lips, and then at Seb staring at him staring at those lips. Jim tries to think of a very cutting way to say ‘ _no_ ,’ but instead finds himself placing his wine glass down on the table.

Sebastian puts his own aside.

Jim finds himself entirely inexplicably in Sebby’s large lap. Seb’s thighs are warm, and the broad flat chest before Jim feels even more so.

Sebastian breathes softly on Jim’s face. “Told you,” he says, “first drop of drink that’s been between my lips all day.”

Jim stares with great focus at those lips. He surges forward, and Sebastian winces.

Jim barely glances down and snatches aside his handgun from its chest holster. It crashes through glass and Sebby puts a restraining hand on Jim’s thin chest.

Jim frowns. “I’ll buy you a new one if you’re that precious. But it’s vile, you really should let me decorate.” Not that he had any intention of letting the man live apart from him for any significant length of time.

“Fuck the table,” Sebastian says. He suddenly has that restraining hand around Jim’s hip, holding Jim captive against Seb’s lap. Sebastian’s lips seem drawn to Jim’s face, which is bizarre but not unwelcome… not at all unwelcome, suddenly… but Seb doesn’t kiss him.

Doesn’t let Jim kiss him either, when Jim leans up just a tad to try.

Sebastian waves a card in Jim’s face instead, which he has evidently ferreted entirely unnoticed out of Jim’s fitted pockets. “How long have you been taking these, you fucker?” Seb curses with peculiar fondness. “These ridiculous things have been doing my head in!”

Jim blinks at him. “Enough that we’re not kissing right now?”

Sebastian waves the card in a queerly blasé fashion. “Doesn’t take a genius to figure what I’m going to do with you is going to be a lot more than kissing. But first: the fucking deck of cards, Jim Moriarty.”

His stomach – or something lower – lurches at that. “Mines is the only face you need to remember,” Jim mutters.

“You’re entirely unforgettable,” Sebastian growls, and pulls Jim close. “I’ll give you your own key if you want one.”

Jim splutters, thrilled by being dragged closer and more than a little alarmed by that fact. “I’ve already _got_ a key,” he says.

“Feels different when you’re not breaking in,” Sebastian says.

Jim stares for a beat. “Where would the fun be in not breaking in? Not to mention that _I_ own _you_ : I have leave of everything that’s yours.”

Sebastian, for no reason that Jim feels comfortable discerning, laughs quite openly. “Of course I’m yours,” he agrees. “And I’m certain we can find many ways of ensuring you feel welcome.”

Jim considers. “Now will you kiss me?”

“Anything for you, boss.”


End file.
